Panavision Cameras and Gillette Razors - Authentic and Pricey

Several days ago I went to a screening at Panavision, a name synonymous with "cinema".

Located in Woodland Hills, this is where well-financed productions go to rent camera equipment (one cannot purchase Panavision equipment). Away from the rooms of lens, camera bodies, insurance forms, harried producers, Directors of Photography checking the accuracy of lens focus marks – is a screening room. Located in a section of the building that looks to be the same décor as when it was first built (a classic art-deco style, all burled-maple formed wood panels, light from inverted pyramid sconces) chairs and couches in that 'ancient Egypt' look that art-deco riffed off, this area is a tribute to self and cinema. Academy awards, won for technical achievements through the years, are displayed in glass cases, and hanging from the rich, wood-paneled walls of a hallway leading to the screening room is a fantastic collection of photographs by George Hurrell. These enormous prints, measuring 3x4 feet (or more) are of the most beautiful faces of Hollywood's golden era – Jean Harlow, Clark Gable Betty Davis, Tyrone Power, etc. At the far end was my favorite enormous print, shot in 1937 in the style that Hurrell made famous. Soft filtered, in spectacular mid-note, it was one of the biggest stars of Hollywood's music scene of that era, Jascha Heifetz.

Jascha Heifetz (1937) Photographed by George Hurrell

In the foyer immediately outside the screening room was a collection of cameras, important for their various technological achievements. Under glass was the camera that shot the deep water footage of the Titanic for Titanic; interesting and actually quite small. The first 'video-cinema' camera that was built in the 1980's was a large, ugly thing; a 'silent' camera (meaning supposedly quiet) from who knows when, even larger. Most impressive for me though, was the largest of them all, a behemoth, half the size of a refrigerator. This camera, a 65mm camera (a frame the size of the palm of my hand) was the actual camera that shot – West Side Story, It's a mad, mad, mad, mad, world – and most awing for me – Lawrence of Arabia. This monster of a machine, something that would take four men to move, was the camera that was taken into that desert to shoot some of the most amazing footage ever. There it was—the real deal.

And of real deals, fakes, authentic, etc, here is quick story that is not esoteric, or symbolic in the least.

Ever since I made the decision to shave, not just my face but my entire head, shaving is a routine that has occupied slightly more thought and time. With the increased surface area, usage of razor blades has gone up. I use Gillette Razor, "Mach 3 blades". I hate that Gillette used the same trickery as a drug dealer to get me to use their product; giving away free kits in the mail and then – having hooked me, (the user) – charging exorbitant prices for the blades. As I use the blades until they become a dull, ineffective experience, I have been thinking there must be an alternative. There is no reason I should have to pay these high prices. So, as any wise person would do, I went online to do some price-busting. Lo and behold, I found them! There they were, mass quantities of blades being sold on ebay for good prices. I quickly ordered a box of 16 and with excitement waited for their arrival. A few short days later, the small package was tossed over my gate, direct from China. As my head was ready for a shave, I quickly grabbed the package, loaded up the blade handle, lathered up my head and passed the blade over.

AHHHHH!!! Roughness, disaster – and suddenly, I looked like something out of an extreme-boxing movie as blood spewed from the open gash in my head. Perhaps spewed is a strong word, but it was not a minor knick. As I tamped toilet paper to my head, I looked at the blades closely, comparing them to my old blade. It took a close examination to determine it, but determine it I did – counterfeit.

With a heavy heart and a half shaved, bloody scalp, I went to the local drugstore, gave "the dealer" my money and returned with real Gillette Mach 3 blades. At about two dollars a pop, they are the most costly personal hygienic product I use – but as I passed the razor over my head, I do have to admit, they're a damn fine product. And I guess my shampoo and hair-stylist costs have gone down.

And finally: in my last entry I quoted a couple lines from one of the best songs about 'fun California life' there ever was, California Sun. Though the Rivieras are actually not the originators of the song, their version is the best: better that the Ramones, Dick Dale, etc. They nailed the feel of the music, the time, the mood, etc. Man, they got it.

And they were from Southbend Indiana.

Huh.

California Sun

And we're out there having fun,
In the warm California sun…
The Rivieras

Yesterday was spent in a way that is actually not very difficult to do when one lives in Southern California; it's just that it's a bit easier to stay home and 'work', be 'responsible', clean the dishes, the house, or just to 'bag out' for whatever reason. Volleyball at the beach.

I met with friends in Malibu where, for the cost of parking, some aches, pains and spots of red skin where suntan lotion was missed, I had one of the most enjoyable days of the year thus far. A friend, someone I hadn't seen in twenty years(!) was in town and I took her to this California ritual that, alas, has been too infrequent in recent years. Being from New York, it was a glorious 'fish out of water' experience for her. Perhaps, the first in a series of seductory steps in moving her and her husband west. Being in "the business" it wouldn't be an insane move.

Lest it seem a perfect day, I am typing this with my left hand gingerly hitting the keys. One desperate leap for the ball ended with my face firmly planted in the sand, and outstretched fingers jammed back further than should be. There were a few injuries, mostly ego – but overall – about as close as it gets to any ode-to-life-in-California pop song of the early sixties (with twangy-reverb'ed guitars and thumping Tom-Toms, naturally).

It was a good conclusion to two weeks of birthday celebration; beginnings, endings and renewals. It seems clichéd to think it, too ostentatious to write it (but I shall): I now return to life and work with the hope and feeling that a new era may have begun.

Fellowship of the Mouse

Sunday morning... Cup of Coffee, warm breeze blowing the curtains, "innocuous music - playlist" playing quietly on the iPod.

This past Friday, on a lark, I sent my package 'o materials to the Disney Fellowship competition. This is another Big-Kahuna type contest. My opinion is, for screenwriting, the only competitions that currently matter are The Sundance Screenwriters lab, The Disney Fellowship, and the Nicholl Fellowship (for which professionals are not eligible).

Others may be a nice pat on the back, maybe a few bucks or some free software, but not really much more. I'm not saying a pat on the back, money or software is a bad thing – it's just not of long term importance.

I'm open to listening to other opinions on this, but proof – as in produced credits, real agents, acquisitions, a career of some sort –is the real pudding here.

Back to the digressed-from story: the sending of the package of materials.

In keeping with the austere "Maushaus" moniker for which they are known (in Hollywood, at least), Disney demands that things be notarized; legal agreements signed that make them untouchable in the event that your script is worthless, stolen, ideas borrowed from, etc. So… to the notary I went to comply with said corporation's fearful lawyers.

Here's where the story is amusing or daunting, depending on your constitution. The notary asked me what I needed officiated. With a slight grin of self consciousness, I mumbled, "A Disney fellow--."

"Oh", she interrupted, putting a real world flavor on the statistics of the numbers of screenplays submitted, "The ABC Disney thing. The deadline is today, isn't it?"

She then when on to tell me that she had thought about taking the day off, but decided against the idea because she knew it would be a busy Friday… because of this specific deadline!

"Young, old, every type of person comes in to get these notarized." She looked at my application, expertly jumped to page (whatever, I don't remember), and marked things off.

She mentioned there was a church around the corner where I could do some quick praying, if so desired. She also mentioned how neat-o she thought it was that all sorts of people applied – that there were dreamers of all ages, shapes, creeds, etc.

Yes, Los Angeles is ground zero for all things movie-related. Screenwriting, being the most accessible, inexpensive (and deceptive in its appearance of ease) is easily the most 'done' thing these days. I dare say there are more, hopeful "screenwriters" than hopeful "actors" these days. Though hopeless self-deception is a large part of the majority of people trying to do either, physical attributes need not stop the hopeful screenwriter before he or she treks from Kansas or New Jersey or Pennsylvania - or wherever, to the City of Angels and dreamers.

So, in this little notary in Atwater Village -- one of three within a two block area – I was reminded by how many people there are, writing, writing, writing -- their 120 page lottery tickets.

It reminded me of when I first moved to L.A. Returning the truck we'd driven across country, the desk clerk asked if we had made sure to remove everything from the truck. "Did you check under the seats, didn't leave anything – wallets? A soon-to-be-a-hit screenplay?"

I laughed; found it an apropos, "welcome to Hollywood" question. My partner in "west coast hopes and dreams" didn't find it funny at all. It chilled her. I tried to calm her nerves by reminding her that most screenplays were beyond bad. Small comfort: "what if what I write is bad? What if I'm no good?"

Ah, the artist's hopes and fears… for which there are a myriad of people ready to exploit both, generally for a fee.

The Nicholl Fellowship is $30.00
The Sundance Lab is $30.00

At least, besides the cost of notarizing, the Disney Fellowship entry is free.

Third Draft Finished… and outta here.

I have just finished the third draft of my screenplay. I feel a mixture of emotions that have classically indicated that this… is a pretty good draft. I've sent it to a few trusted people who will read it and hopefully comment on it – in a kind, yet useful manner. Then, I shall re-write it yet again, hopefully minor adjustments, some tonal adjustment, nothing major.

Some detailing of the emotions in completing the V3 rewrite; other writers and creators will sympathize:

Exhaustion – I guess that explains itself. However, beyond physical exhaustion, there is also the mental. This script, more than anything I've written, has dredged through things from my present and past like no other. I have exploited myself to such a degree that I feel as spent as a twenty year old Appalachian strip mine.

Fear – Fear that the script is not a diamond but rather, a turd. Either may still be in the rough, but one or the either it is. When you write an action flick that doesn't work, it's not as brutal as when you lay your heart out on paper The fear is being melodramatic, sophomoric, etc.

Excitement – It feels good. Excitement that it actually might not be a turd, but rather a diamond.

Sadness – yes, strangely there is sadness. It's a common depression most commonly called the "Post-Partem blues" Generally reserved for pregnant women, creators of other sorts are common sufferers of this malaise also.

Relief – The relief that I am, once again, through the storm. The relief that yes – I had one more story in me. Relief that I'm going to make deadlines.

SO…

Allowing myself to walk away from the computer, today I will go sailing. I haven't been on the boat in many, many months and a spirited race will do me good. I must quickly review my knot-tying abilities and put together the kit o' clothes, sun tan lotion and proper shoes. A three hour tour will be a nice respite…

Perhaps it is the script, perhaps it is this point in my life - I have been reviewing my past, sending some "hello" messages out in virtual bottles and reconnecting with some people.

Over the last several months, I have been having a wonderful e-mail correspondence with two friends from High School who found me and one from college. Reminisces quickly dispensed with, it is fun to read and write to these dear women; to hear about their family and work related woes and triumphs. They have also been so helpful in this time of transition.

In part, thanks to them, the chime announcing incoming email has taken on new and pleasant excitement. Though it's generally a sure fire stock tip or Viagra, emails from real people, from friends, are so nice, aren't they?

And today, most surreal, thought provoking and yes, I admit - heart rate quickening, I received a reply email from a person I sent an exploratory email to several days ago. I shall refer to her only as "D". She was one of the most important people in my past, leaving an indelible mark in my mind and heart. Now, fifteen years later, a lifetime later, we are communicating again for the first time. It'll be cathartic to catch up with her.

No excuses in these days of digital connectivity. If there's someone out there you've been thinking about communicating with, do it. Time is fleeting.

And now I'm sailing.

In the next issue of Stefan Avalos Tells All…

Scott Kirsner's new book,

Inventing the Movies:
Hollywood's Epic Battle Between Innovation and the Status Quo, from Thomas Edison to Steve Jobs

The Last Broadcast figures prominently into this book, which is pretty cool. I'll give a full report, but upon cursory view, it seems this could potentially become the defacto reading about what the title espouses.

This Earthquake had a good Publicist

The news of the earthquake reminded me of something I've observed about many movie related events; festivals, premieres, etc. It seems a lot more impressive once the P.R. people have handled it than it really was.

Lest the cropped images on CNN of crumbled brick walls, huddled masses of people standing on sidewalks, burst pipes and flooding intersections create an image of havoc, even momentary, let me assuage those notions. It's all in the way the photo or video is framed. Keep that in mind if you view this slideshow from the LA TIMES to show the mayhem.

Here, 34 miles from the epicenter, the house rocked back and forth for about ten or fifteen seconds. Then it was over. Had it continued, yes it would have been quite something else. The rhythmic nature of the rocking causes a sympathetic increase in the movement of things; like the cat crossing a bridge, it would theoretically become very destructive over a bit of time. But not this time. A woman that grew up in Ca, wrote me last night, describing her earliest earthquake recollection:

Running out of the house, my little brother and I watched as the front lawn looked like someone had grabbed one corner and flicked it like a carpet, the thundering shockwaves rolling through the grass. Our precursor to the SUV, an International Harvester Travelall, was bouncing down the driveway.

When the lawn looks like someone is flicking a carpet. Hmmm… okay, then I'll be impressed.

All rocking and rolling distractions beneath me aside, my writing continues. After copious re-outlining, meta writing, head banging and hair pulling (okay there was no hair pulling), I think that the "writing" portion of the rewrite will officially commence after I post this. Hopefully it will go at a speed that is satisfactory.

The temperature continues to be perfection and I continue to be thankful.

Now, if only my replacement battery for my notebook computer had come back from China the way it was supposed to, I could sit outside and write.

More on that later.

Earthquake!

So, it was a nice shake back and forth and my friend in Sierre Madre felt the same....
I wonder where the epicenter was. This wasn't nothing.
Update: 5.8 in Chino Hills - about 34 miles east of Silver Lake.

Update: LOCAL ABC NEWS ON TOP OF THE STORY!!!

I kid you not, these are their initial, top news points.


Click on image for full size humor


ABC - letting you know what's really important.
(in case you forgot, ABC is owned by Disney corp.)

Cutting the Trapeze harnesses

I don't know what happened to me, but I feel like I was slammed with a 2x4. Muscle ache, headache, nauseated stomach, no desire to get up out of bed… EEKS.

So today, rather than berate myself and force myself up into an attempt to work, I just stayed in bed… 'til 2:30PM!! I am feeling about 80 percent better, but man it really sucked.

I went to a Royal Crown Revue show last night in Pasadena that was fantastic. A beautiful night sitting on a blanket beneath palm trees lit with little white bulbs; listening to and watching top notch players putting on a show from the Levitt Pavilion, life doesn't get much better than that.

But I think the hot dog I ate may have been the culprit to my intensely sick day.

While drifting in and out of sleep, I had a chance to ponder a couple things. One, it's not a whole lot of fun being alone and sick. There's nobody to take care of you, ask you how you're doing, be concerned; not even the sounds of someone else in the house.

Oh, well. Too bad.

Also, as I drifted in and out of sleep, I had a chance to ponder the date itself: July 25^th.
Everybody has their important anniversaries, days to remember, moments in time. July 25^th is one of them for me. It is a sad one – about as sad as they get. However the event took place many years ago and it has been many years already that I could talk about it without undue emotions raging.
My mother died on July 25^th, a long time ago -- when I was twelve. For the first years, it would be an intensely sorrowful day, but as time goes on memories are smoothed, pains lessen.

The reason that I bring my mother's death up today is because in a couple weeks, I will turn the same age my mother was when she died. In a couple months, I will be older than she ever lived to be.

Several days ago, I dragged an old photo album out of the garage and for the first time in quite a few years, looked at pictures I had taken as a child. For my tenth birthday, my requested present was an SX-70 land camera. I loved taking pictures, and as a child, I diligently wrote on the Polaroids: who, what and when these pictures were of. As I'm looking at them now, it is striking me just how young my mother was; already in these first pictures, taken in 1978, she is younger than I am now.

So, today, I feel a bit like a circus performer. In a year when a lot of safety lines have been cut and nets removed, I feel that this is somehow another harness, removed and dropped to the ground far below. These are not my choices; they are just the nature of time, continually moving forward.

I'm swinging yet further into a space that some of those I looked up to never travelled.

Yeah, it's a bit disconcerting.

Universal Studios – uh oh.

I awoke this morning to news that part of Universal studios was on fire so, I grabbed my trusty camera and headed up to Mulholland drive to see what I could see.

As I drove up the 101 toward Universal, the smoke was graying the sky, turning what would have been another perfect blue sky day into a smoggy looking gray. Of course, being the valley, that sometimes happens no matter if a studio is burning or not. :)

Thanks to the gas prices and the fact that it's Sunday morning, there was almost no traffic, so I was able to get to what I predicted would be the perfect vantage point in about ten minutes. I wasn't the only one who had the idea as about twenty other people with cameras of all sorts were also looking down at the sight.

No question, Mulholland Drive provided a very good view.

And finally, if stills aren't enough, I shot a little video...

What else…?
Oh, I played the mega millions lottery on Friday. I just checked my numbers and... I WON!

No lie!

Are all my problems solved? Not quite. My ticket is worth a cool twelve bucks.

Walking around the symbolism

I got word from the editor last Friday about the article. Our phone call started with a little chit chat, which is generally a "not all is completely bad" sign. She then got into her comments about the article and said, "It had a lot of good stuff, but…"

Long and the short is that I've had to do more work on it. They say that writing is re-writing. They are right but, ugh, this is tough. Whether it's with screenplays or magazine articles, pulling one paragraph or shifting a thought tends to make the whole thing crumble like a house of cards. It's so easy to make, what seem to be, minor critiques... but often damn hard to put them into practice. Additionally, she wanted me to interview a couple more people; interviews I wasn't able
to get until today (they are very busy people), so now I'm sitting in front of the computer at 10:00 PM, a fresh pot of coffee. Déjà vu.

Several blogs ago, I wrote about the dangers of seeing symbolism in the world. It is one thing for the "dead crows lying on the ground" to mean something in a book or movie, in real life they're just birds that met their maker.

Today, I had a moment which I must share; a perfect example of seeing symbolism in life.

At the request of the one person who has the power to have such requests be honored, I am not going to blog about certain aspects of my personal life in too much detail.
Suffice to say, the following observation accurately mirrored/s my feelings over the last months.

Three months ago, to the day, as regular readers will know, a very dark and distressing time began for me. In an attempt to preserve my sanity, I began exercising feverishly. Part of my regimen has involved walking/jogging around Silver Lake.

For those that don't live in Los Angeles, Silver "Lake" is actually a man-made reservoir in the center of Los Angeles and what gave the neighborhood its name.

For the last months, they've been draining it. The first time in twenty years, it was because of a high level of Bromides. What was a typically lovely landmark, day by day, became an increasingly large, surreal, white clay pit. As the water level continued to drop, the symbolism of it always struck me; a perfect metaphor to my emotional state. A couple months ago, the once beautiful reservoir was finally empty; for how long, I knew not...

Silver Lake - Empty March 22, 2008

Anyway...

Today as I went for my walk/jog what do I see? Silver Lake is being refilled!




View on May 13, 2008

Already a large area of the reservoir floor was under water. It's going to take about three or four weeks before Silver Lake is once again full of water; back to its happy state.

As I stared at the water cascading out of the large pipes in one of the towers, I couldn't contain what I'm sure must have been one goofy smile. Because the very good news is, if things go the way I believe and hope(!) they are… Silver Lake is still be mirroring my life.

And if it's not, you can be sure I'm using this symbolism in a screenplay, where it damn well will mean what I want it to mean.

Get out of Dodge

I've written a couple blog essays that I haven't published. It's just as easy to hit the 'draft' or 'delete' button as the publish button. It's something more people should do more often. I include myself in that bunch. This entry may deserve one of those buttons, but I'm putting something up to let people know I'm actually still getting in front of the computer.

Plenty has been happening in the last month, which may be one of the reasons I haven't been blogging so much. We're in the midst of AFM (The American Film Market) which has seemed quiet this year. A friend, in town with his movie, has been making some decent sales -- so I guess things are going alright in spite of the seeming lack of energy.

Elsewhere in town the Red flags are waving again, which is frightening. They indicate high winds – hot winds – dangerous winds. The danger of fire is still present even though more humidity is in the air and the temps have dropped. For the most part, the signs of the devastating fires of the past weeks are over where I live. The plainest sign of them was the air – skies that would turn Orange and Gray, and a haze over everything. Though There was only one day that was really bad, I have had a small cough for days and my throat feels similar to the 'day after a party'. Since there hasn't been a party most evenings before, I attribute it to the smoke that was once forests and homes.

The biggie now for many people in this town is the impending Writer's strike. It's going to come to pass and the feeling is that it's going to last a long time, that it will wipe a lot of people out – and ultimately, that writers will lose. It's a shame and the deregulation of the 80's, which has continued to run rampant to this day, is one of the big reasons it will be so difficult for writers to win. Huge multi-faceted corporations are hard to beat. Sony, et all, don't need to make movies to survive. It's a hell of a beast that's being fought, made worse by the fact that all the unions haven't banded together to fight at the same time. Over and over, people in the film business prove themselves as being their own worst enemies.

If one believes in residuals for artists, (which is a well established part of the pay equation) the fight is justified. It would be nice if the AMPTP weren't so greedy. But they are. And so – the strike will happen.

Seems a good time to get out of town for a bit, and coincidentally, that's just what I'm doing. In two days, I will be in Helsinki, Finland and then off to St. Petersburg, Russia. No computers, no internet, no cell phone, no nothing. It will be the first time since I had my first 2400 baud modem that I will be away from it all so completely. Wish me luck on that, and expect to see full postings of the journey when I return.

Best of luck to all that live and work in Los Angeles.

 

Writers with a ‘Sense of Foreboding’

Tell me about it. Tell any writer about it. If this is what you do for a living:

1. You are to be pitied.
   
2. You know damn well a sense of foreboding is hanging over your head every moment of the day.
   
   1. Will I have another good idea?
      
   2. Will I get paid?
      
   3. Will I eat?
      
   4. Will I get read?
      
   5. Will I get produced?
      
   6. Will my words get edited into a strange approximation of what I actually wrote?
      
   7. Will the critics rip me up?
      

Unfortunately, this sense of foreboding is about the WGA/AMPTP negotiations. A couple months ago my money was on 'no strike'. Now, I don't know. I think we're in for some lousy times. Heck, we're already there because most people are assuming that there will, in fact, be a strike; and the town has been in that mode for some time now.

The smart money in this town is betting on a strike-- Damn it! Because it doesn't matter if you're in the union or not, this is shutting down the town for the most part. It messes with the mindset of everyone, large or small.

Basically, I'm anti-union. Yes, the idea of a union is a good one but it's been so abused and I have seen unions screw things up so much, that I have a knee jerk response to them. Maybe it's because I am also a producer. In the case of the WGA, I am also not overly impressed by their abilities; not as a bargaining entity, and certainly not as an ethical business. That goes for all the guilds by the way, not just the WGA.

That disclaimer made: I hate to say it, but this strike, if that's what happens… has to happen. While the AMPTP did take their initial 'rollback' -- "oh, and *uck you" off the table (that was the one where they wanted to end residuals as they now exist), they are standing fast with the main issue, which is residuals for internet downloads etc. Yes there are other things thrown in for confusion, but that's the one this is all about.

And writers need to not bend on it. Everyone talks about how this is the future. Well scribes, I have news for you -- It's already here. My last movie made almost as much money with VOD as with DVD. It's a big secret that is being kept quiet by the Producers at this point. I know—I'm privy to all the business side of my movies. DVD's and other physical media are going the way of the DODO bird. Writers, jump on download residuals now or lose.

So this is why, with a heavy heart and very mixed feelings -- even though I hate unions and even though this is really screwing my projects up, I believe -- The Writers Guild has to stay firm.

Now, with that said, I'll get angry again. Why, why, why, can't these stupid guilds band together? You want to fight the man? Get together! Today, in the same story that mentioned the "sense of forboding", SAG (actors guild for those who don't know) said they wouldn't walk out with the Writers. Yes, they have their own negotiations coming up as do the directors – but why does everyone have to protect their precious hide so much?

Band together, you bastards, and do it right. Remember – United we stand?

To read the full LA TIMES story, click here.

 

Also, if you're a writer and you're not already aware of this Craig Mazin's blog, shame on you… and get over there now.

 

Partial Reveal

Okay, a little bit of info. More as I receive it.

The investigative story that I've been researching and writing is going to be in this coming issue of FADE IN magazine.

What appears to be the cover. I'll let you know as soon as I have one in hand.

My story is about the foreign levies programs of the WGA and DGA.

Never heard of the words "Foreign Levies"? Didn't think so.

Sounds dull? Trust me, it's not.

Remember how I was racing against a couple other writers covering the same story? Well, they both hit the streets yesterday. However, it's not a bad thing – one was in the La Times, the other in the LA Weekly. The LA Times story is good, however the LA Weekly article is incredible. In the spirit of accepting and acknowledging Dennis McDougal's great investigative writing, here's a link to it. My story covers some of the same ground, however it is a bit more independent filmmaker oriented.

You could very well be witnessing the beginnings of a monumental scandal – a scandal you can't quite call a "Hollywood" scandal, because it involves so many people not truly associated with Hollywood.

I'm going to try to keep my blog the free form, "day in my life" thing It's been. However, be prepared to see some future entries get very industry and film specific.

Babble On, Hollywood

As part of this magazine story I've been writing (yes, it has still been in process, now two weeks beyond the original deadline), I tracked down a rather reclusive director. It was an exercise in detective work on my part because certain entities (I promise you will eventually find out what the hell I've been alluding to) said they couldn't find him. It was also because, not only do these entities owe this guy money, he is a legend. It was an excuse to take a walk on the wild side – and tell him of money owed him; certainly a good ice breaker in any situation.

After a bit of searching, I was given his address by someone who said that postal mail was the only way to communicate with him.

Because he has no telephone, this really is the only way to reach him. His mailing address rather than a P.O. box, was an actual address in Hollywood complete with suite number.

I decide to drive to the address. Perhaps I could talk to someone there.

The address led to a seedy hotel in a seedy part of Hollywood. Actually, it was a youth hostel.

The front desk told me that yes, this is where the person I was looking for lived and, after leaving my ID, explained how to find his room.

I entered a tiny elevator, the type where only two people can fit at a time, with the steel cage you close around you; and arrived at his floor with a shaky clang.

I slid the steel door open and then walked down the long, narrow, windy hallway that was painted about four different colors from start to finish until I reached his room.

I stared at the brown painted metal door with the large peephole in the center for a long while. Behind this door possibly was a legend of avant-garde cinema. Then I knocked. I heard the shuffling of feet. Then the door opened slightly and around it peered the annoyed face of the eighty year old director.

"What do you want?" he asked, staring at me with baleful eyes.

I, rather nervously, told him who I was and then, before I had a chance to tell him I had information that would lead to money for him... Kenneth Anger slammed his door in my face.

My Neighbor Alex

My neighbor Alejandro Martin died.

For most of his life, Alex had been an auto mechanic. As a retired man, he never hesitated to help neighbors and others repair their cars. I frequently saw him under the hood of any type of car, rooting out and fixing a problem. I think a lot of the younger people in the neighborhood looked up to him for that reason. He helped more than a few first-time car buyers get their wheels on the road. When, one morning, we awoke to a flattened tire due to an errant screw, he took it to his place and returned it a short while later, plugged, balanced and ready for action – of course refusing to take any money.

Not too long ago, he had been happily picking some of the various fruits of which we have an over abundance and had shared more of the neighborhood stories with me. It was he who told me the history of the house in which we live (a voodoo witch used to live here – hence the reason for all the red paint hidden beneath the newly repainted walls). I'd also seen him during the graffiti incident where he had finally brought a paint brush of his own to help with the repainting of a wall across the street.

I knew he had cancer, but it was recently diagnosed and the chemotherapy didn't seem to be taking too much out of him – or so he claimed. So when, in the midst of a sudden flurry of activity next door, I saw his son and learned "We lost dad on Saturday", Marianne and I were kind of stunned. As we have woefully noted, the transient nature of Los Angeles is unnerving. The ground on which we stand, the houses in which we live, the friends, the neighbors and the neighborhoods have such a temporary feel, that it begins to feel like we are living in a film production. The sets and actors are all transient, and "It's a wrap" might be called at any time. For his family, it also came suddenly and unexpectedly.

At his wake, seeing the photos of him throughout his life was touching. I only knew him as a man in his early sixties, but seeing him as the young guy, fresh from Mexico, hopes and dreams yet to be realized was sweet insight into his life.

Seeing Alex in the casket, I was struck, as I always am, by the ritual itself. Rather than raise any emotions, the deflated wax figure made me ponder the strangeness of a "viewing"; a relic from a primitive time to confirm that yes, they are indeed dead. The utterly false representation of the person I knew lessened the emotions I was feeling – until my eyes caught one thing – a tiny wrench placed in his breast pocket. That small piece of chromed steel really got me.

In a town where stars are born, worlds and ideas created and exploited – where wealth and fame reach incomprehensible levels, Alex was a simple man; an immigrant who dreamed of a better life and made one by working hard with his hands. However, if a sign of a man's greatness is by how many people attend his funeral, he was a great man. Every pew in the church was filled to capacity – three hundred or more people. He affected a lot of people in a positive way, myself included. I'm glad to have known him.

Tag ID

So, a quick 'case closed' to the Tagged wall.
Ask and ye shall receive - I learned what the wall's tags were.
Here is an image of the breakdown, properly ID'd.

Thanks to the people at knowgangs.com



Frogtown is evidently an area about two miles from here by the Los Angeles River. Though I had never heard of it, I guess there's enough pride about it to have a Gang.
As one person online wrote - the name "Frog Town Boys" would be amusing if they weren't such a damn nuisance. Their graffiti seems to be an annoyance throughout the entire area.

PS - the wall is still nice and shiny white.

Tagging Things

Just a couple days ago, I added category ‘tags’ to most of the blog entries I’ve made over the past couple years. A quick bit of advice: if you intend to start a blog of your own, start labeling (tagging) your entries from the outset. Doing it a couple years after the fact is a bit of a drag, if you keep any kind of writing habit going. Anyway, my tangent righted, the point of that was to mention the tags. I grandly called one of the categories “My Los Angeles Life in General”. Not surprisingly, it’s a catch-all for things that happen in my daily life that are fairly specific to – living in Los Angeles. Tada!

Today’s entry will be such.

Across the street from the front gate to my house is a retaining wall. Made of bricks, it’s not the prettiest thing, It’s functional – it holds someone’s property off the sidewalk. This morning, as I was grinding my coffee, I looked out the kitchen window to see, a distance down the street, several of the neighborhood’s more colorful characters, pointing and angrily talking amongst each other. I looked to where they were pointing, through my front gate to the wall across the street, and saw the reason for all the gesticulating…

It’s Graffiti.

Well, yes—but Graffiti is a catch-all word for “scribed vandalism”. More specifically, that is Gang tagging, a fairly well developed form of communication among the underbelly of any urban area. It’s obviously vandalism as well as a visual blight. Additionally, there are many other meanings underlying these tags, which would be understood by gang members, rival gangs or someone involved in the street gang world. Exactly what gang did this and why? There could be many reasons. After I took a couple pictures, I nodded acknowledgement to the guys down the street – middle aged Latinos, each with their own faded gang-type tattoos, revealing a past, and walked toward them. We all agreed that “this was bullshit” and one said his brother had gone to get some paint and a brush. I offered, as a form of neighborhood solidarity, to help paint the wall. Twenty minutes later, when the paint and brush arrived, an interesting ritual transpired. Though there was only one brush, everyone took a turn with it. It was a symbolic way of saying, “Look, we all live in the same neighborhood and, though we might all have different reasons, the bottom line is the same – we don’t want graffiti on the wall.

After my symbolic brushing, I did some googling to see what I could find out about the gang tagging.

Here is my deciphering thus far. If anyone has any ideas, please leave a comment. I don’t know that any of what I’ve ‘determined’ is right. I may be completely off base.

So, there you have it; My Los Angeles Life in General. Though gentrification has pushed out much of the old element (meaning poor – meaning higher crime, unfortunately), all it takes is one spray can to remind you of what the ‘hood’ was like, not too many years ago. One slightly amusing anecdote I read; in this area of the city (Silver Lake, Echo Park), because the revitalization/gentrification (whatever you want to call it) has pushed out most of the gangs, much of the graffiti is done by what the police are calling “commuter taggers”. They have to drive to the old hoods to leave their marks, even though they no longer live there. The police are commenting on how this is a new thing. Ghosts, still unwilling to let go. Sad, isn’t it?

Another note: I want to commend the efficiency of the city. The official city painters arrived within a couple hours, and sprayed the entire wall with a fresh coat of paint. By noon, there was no sign that wall had ever been touched. They say that immediate removal is the best way to prevent reoccurrence.

We shall see.

It’s always something

This evening, as we’re relaxing, the cat started acting funny – sniffing around the floor, trying to locate a smell. I heard a ‘bonnng’ sound, like a pipe being hit, but didn’t think too much about it. A little while later, Marianne started thinking she smelled something burning. I smelled something but wasn’t sure I could place the odor. Yet. I started walking around, checking all culprits that could make burning smells – oven, heaters, computers, and finally, putting my nose down to floor level at a power strip, smelled the odor; not something burning, rather, the faint whiff of skunk... but getting stronger. I took a flashlight and started walking the perimeter of the house to see if there was a way a skunk could have gotten in and under the house. Almost immediately I found it. Mesh at a vent had been pushed in quite dramatically. This was a pro.

Great. A vent at a place where I couldn’t get to from the inside -- much further than the mysterious room I found under the house when we first moved in. Marianne, in no mood to talk about it, got snappy, as is her wont when something doesn’t appeal to her, and vanished. To bed, I surmise. Feminist diatribes aside, there are certain things that are the guy’s job, and 'skunk in the crawl space' would seem to fit that bill handily. So, I did a quick google to see if there was some neat remedy. Not wanting to spray fox urine everywhere, as suggested in one "Skunk Away" website, I realized I would have to roll up the old sleeves and get to work. Being reminded at another site that, not only are they the most rabid animals in California, but also nocturnal, I decided that there was no time like the present, the present being night.

I grabbed a flashlight and set about trying to get the mesh reattached to the vent from the outside of the house. Not an easy feat, as it was pushed in and there were only abut four inches of area with which to work. Using some number 12 gauge wire, which has become my all purpose bailing wire, I was eventually able to tie the mesh against the vent.

It won’t win prizes, but it will keep the skunks out.

Or in...

I’ve been re-writing and started playing with some software called Endorphin. I’m planning on using it for some animations which will be part of some animatic-storyboards I’m starting to build as part of the package for the Diamond Road Pitch. Pretty cool stuff, and if moviemaking and CG are of any interest to you, I suggest checking out their demo.

I still haven’t gotten around to writing any kind of review for the enemies of Stefon Avalos CD, but that should be coming soon. This cough still gets nasty towards the end of the day, which remains my excuse as to why my blogging remains iffy. I just don't have the urge. However, every day is a day better. If you get hit with this bug, be prepared for a one month ordeal. My recommendation is to get a vaporizer and use it every night. Among all the cold and flu remedies, that has been the biggest single help.

Did I just hear something rattling below my feet?

I have to go now.

Watch out for the bug that's going around

I’ve got plenty to write about, but right now I feel like doing nothing.

Because I am sick as a dog. I feel like crap.

I don’t know where the expression came from, and I haven’t seen a dog as sick as I feel. I’m pretty lucky in avoiding the winter bugs, and I seem to have a pretty good resistance to them. Not this time. It started a day before New Years, and Marianne brought something else back from the east coast. I don’t know if these things mixed, or what… but the final result is matching my “hell flu of 1999”. That one was worse though, cause I had to fly. I got that at Sundance and took it to Rotterdam. My left ear was stuffed for six odd months afterwards. Now that was hell.

So what’s been happening in the week(!) I’ve been sick?

Besides the usual writing thing, albeit with a lot of coughing and choking thrown in, my chair hunt has reached a climax; I currently have a bid on something on Ebay. The next blog entry will determine whether I got it or not. Which one, you ask? It’s a Eurotech me7erg. Is it beautiful? Um, no. It actually looks a bit like something Terry Gilliam might put in one of his movies, but my god, the comfort and adjustability! I’ll tell you more as the saga completes itself. For now, wish me luck on my bid.

The weather over the course of the New Year thus far has been tumultuous. Heavy winds have buffeted us for a couple days now. Rather than clear the air, it was dusty – coming in from the desert. Today it’s calm, and visibility is amazing. The mountains look perfect in the distance. Staggering out of bed this morning and looking out to the backyard, I saw the wind had done a little work here too; a rather large branch came down from the avocado tree. The tree, being so large, I couldn’t determine where it came from. No harm to the tree, a bit of natural pruning, it’s something for me clean up and maybe a few avacadoes to pick up. Walking into the kitchen confirmed that. Marianne had already picked what she easily saw from the branch.

I’m saving, for my next entry, the most entertaining thing of the last couple days. I will leave you with a picture of what the fedex man left on my doorstep.

Happy New Year. It’s 2007

Hope it has been good for you thus far. For me, yesterday was spent cleaning the aftermath of our small, yet messy New Year’s eve celebration. Confetti at New Years is like the sand from a day at the beach, it gets everywhere. Add to that the spills of champagne and you have a sticky mess of runny-colored paper, that requires three levels of cleaning – the sweep, the vacuum, and then the mop. And that’s just the floor. Next level up is the plates of leftover food, the streamers, the decorations that go back into a box, lights and extra chairs that go to the garage…

But it’s fun; it’s a fake mess – created purposefully. While doing this, on television we watched the festivities that were going on a few miles away, namely the Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena. Because I don’t take parades seriously doesn’t mean I won’t watch the occasional one. However, I do watch them with a cynicism born of, well – watching parades. The Rose Parade is a relatively “cynicism free” experience. It’s a pleasant parade amazingly free of the strutting conceit and misplaced blue collar pride (not to mention the horrendous racket made by hundreds of banjos simultaneously strummed) of say, The Philadelphia Mummers.

Nor does it have too much of the militant bravura of so many American parades. While I take no issues with war veterans being celebrated in a parade, I do think that fourteen year olds, holding beaten-up wooden rifles with the grimmest and most serious of expressions on their pimply faces, are creepy.

With the Rose Parade, most silliness and self congratulatory waving was quaint – Yah for the Notaries of America and their ‘Squirrels buying their first house’ float!

Additionally, the floats are quite amazing, unlike the Hollywood Christmas Parade’s beaten up sadness, or the Macy parade’s balloons-o’-consumerism. Eventually, even the most jaded person has to admit that the hand built, all natural and in many cases, living – floats of the Rose Parade are gawker-worthy.

However, lest you think that I’ve gone soft, I did find one biggie, and Marianne (much less the parade cynic than I) standing next to me, also reacted with the requisite “oh my God”.

And it’s not the ‘Imperial storm troopers’ (Nazis really, in case you don’t get it) of the Star Wars celebration, marching down the streets of Pasadena while crowds cheered insanely – the geek equivalent of an SS Brigade marching the streets of Paris. That’s too easy on too many levels.

No, at the very beginning, just as a bunch of corn-fed, smiling Oklahoma’ians finished a song and dance routine introducing the parade’s theme, “Celebrating Our Good Nature” -- two fighter jets screamed past over head right behind a B2 STEALTH BOMBER. Yes, Our Good Nature – don’t you forget it. Have you seen our ICBM’s lately?

That’s America.

Later, shortly before sunset, we took a drive to Pasadena and drove down Colorado Ave., the parade’s ground zero. Besides the amazing amounts of garbage that lined the streets for the eight mile parade route, the streets were also crawling with tourists, determined to continue their celebrations, not nearly ready to call it a day. The Rose Bowl game was still in full swing down the road, so I’m guessing that the revelry went much later too.

So that was it. A beautiful, sunny New Years Day in southern California, hopefully the harbinger of the year ahead.

Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans

December 8, 2006
It's that day. Nuff said. Moving on.

I’m sitting outside writing. Recently, the time of year, the place and the duration of my workday are all in alignment.

Here’s how it goes. I work in the office until it is nice and warm, do a few things like eat lunch, zip around on the internet a bit…
Then, head outside with the laptop and continue working, on battery power.
It still amazes me to no end, that with this 1 inch thick, 4 pound device, and a wireless phone on the marble table next to me, that I have an entire office – more powerful and capable than any office of even fifteen years ago.

The sun creeps over the hill around this time – 4:00‘ish and I’m at about 37% battery power. So, the sun, temperature and my laptop battery charge will all drop to uncomfortable levels around the same time.

Then, back inside. Whether I continue working or not is entirely dependent on my inspiration level – which lately has been pretty good.
However, the fact that I’m blogging when I should be screen-re-re-writing is not a good sign.
Wa-st-ing-pre-cious-bat-tery-on-bl-og…

This entry will not instantly be, ahem, published (I already told you – it’s their work, not mine) because I want to scan the cover of the latest book I purchased – and which just arrived in the mail. I’m very proud of it, as it is co-written by none other than my sister, Inez Avalos Heath!

Pause for battery/sweater/light….
Well, a birthday party and helping Marianne with a video edit caused that pause to go into another day. I’m back… Need to get a new scanner, so I’m temporarily using my still camera as a scanner. Crude, but it works.

ANYWAY –






















The Garden of Gold –El Jardin de Oro (Qori Pawkar) is a book my sister, Inez Avalos Heath (and Amanda Veliz Garagatti and artist Ciro Madueno Velasco) wrote about the lives of the Incas.
It’s a bilingual book plus – another language – Quechua, the language of the Incas.

She was telling me a little about the difficulties of doing a book like this. How things like proof reading for instance – not something I think about too much when I read a book (please no comments about that and errors within this blog) became Herculean, as this is a book in three languages, one of which is nearly extinct. Besides simply not wanting to have any errors with grammar or translation with English and Spanish, they had a responsibility of not screwing up any of the Quechua words. Would you know? I wouldn’t… but therein is the danger. Wouldn’t want future books about the Incas to say virgins when they meant raisins… Thats one of the huge issues with material that will eventually become a reference.

To add to the job, they wrote this book so that it would be good for children. Not that it’s a “childrens” book in my opinion, it just not your typical dry, reading. It’s good. You know, for kids.
Over the last several years, she’s been telling me bits and pieces about the research – a lot of traveling to Peru, going to places wayyyy off the beaten track (even for Peruvians). Minus the archeological thievery, she’s our family’s resident Indiana Jones.
So, I’m very proud to shamelessly plug her work.
Check it out. Buy a copy for someone.
It would mean a lot to her and to me, and you’ll love it.